This Is Fantastic! Wish My First Time Had Been That Good

This is fantastic! Wish my first time had been that good 😅

unearth [no outbreak!joel miller x virgin f!reader]

summary: When your normally strict parents go out of town for two weeks and leave you on your own for the first time with little warning, you're left reeling and afraid of being on your own for so long. Luckily, Joel Miller, your father's best friend, very generously offers to let you stay with him. Your long time crush on him shouldn't be a problem at all. ratings/warnings: E [smut, yearning, Joel is a little manipulative, loss of virginity, dad's best friend, nice big age gap (reader is 21, Joel is 40), liberal use of baby girl, religious trauma of the Christian variety (no denomination noted), reader wears a sundress, shaming of sexuality, bad relationship with reader's parents, insecurity, flirting, trouble orgasming, pussy pronouns (she/her), humping/grinding, masturbation, unprotected PIV, oral sex, references to early 00s media, soft Joel, i think that's it] wc: 6.1k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! so i've had this idea for like a really long time but i thought maybe everyone had already done all this so i let it rot in the docs, and then i just suddenly felt the need to finish it. so happy birthday, pedro, i hope you never read this. for all the girlies (gn) with some leftover issues related to sex and purity culture, this is for us<3 special shout out to @mothandpidgeon for the feedback and to her, @swiftispunk, @haylzcyon, and @joeloverture for listening to me yap about this specific fic for months now.

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

It’s summer again. 

Everything is sticky and hot and you’re out of class for another month and a half until your senior year in college starts. Finally—finally you’ll graduate and get out from underneath the thumb of two strict religious parents and live your own life. 

You hope, anyway.

For the first time in your life, at twenty-one years old, they’re on a vacation without you. Really, it’s less a vacation and more of a marriage retreat—something to revive or restore or renew whatever good Christian couples do after twenty-five years of marriage. You’d only been half paying attention when your mother sprang this bit of news on you at their anniversary party, too focused on the idea of being home alone for two whole weeks starting Monday morning. 

You’ve never been home alone for more than a night at most. The dark is scary enough with other people around. A day might be doable, but two weeks? All alone? 

It’s not like you have anywhere to go, either. Your friends from school all live scattered around the country, and anyone you’d had a relationship with as a teenager isn’t the kind of person you want anything to do with now. 

Typical of them, really, throwing you in the deep end and expecting you to figure it out when it’s finally convenient for them that you learn how to swim. They’d done the same thing when it came to driving, too. 

“You’re an adult,” your father had said, after spending the last three years making sure you understood that he’s in charge and you are not an adult. “Figure it out.”

To your surprise, it was Mr. Miller to the rescue. Mr. Miller, your father’s best friend—one of those blue collar working man types that always has a little dirt under his nails. Mr. Miller and his t-shirts that hug the fullest part of his bicep and his big bear hugs that last a little longer lately. Mr. Miller who’s always made you trip over your sentences with his sweet brown eyes and big smiles. 

He doesn’t like it when you call him Mr. Miller, but your parents are insistent about it. He’s never made his own daughter address them by their last names, something that’s always brought you great joy to observe. They’re obsessed with propriety, but not enough to confront someone else about it. 

And you know why. It’s not about respecting one’s elders—they just want to control things. Mr. Miller—Joel—is not one so easily controlled. 

You don’t really understand his friendship with your father, but you suppose it’s not your business to understand. You're not quite sure what close male friendships are supposed to look like, after all. Joel might not know a thing about your father.

When he offers you his home for the next two weeks, you don’t even think of declining, not even in the polite way your mother taught you. Decline once, and then accept. It makes no sense to you, but it’s “manners.” You don’t care about manners right now. 

“Are you excited to have the place all to yourself?” He’d asked after your mom told you. Joel, apparently, knew about it all before you did. You shook your head. 

“Not really. I’m a little scared of staying on my own for so long. I’ve never…I mean, they’ve never…” 

He’d just nodded and you’d quickly grown embarrassed, wishing you’d just lied. His daughter was younger than you, off enjoying life on her own at UT so much that she’d found housing near the campus and stayed there, and here you are, worried about the dark. 

Humiliating. 

But then he’d bumped your shoulder with his and asked, “Why don’t you come stay with me for a couple weeks, sweetheart? I’m not around all that much when I’m workin’ a job, you’ll have all the privacy you need.”

“Really?” You asked. “I mean, my parents, I don’t know if they’ll—but yes! I’d really like that.”

You’d tried to keep your cool, tried not to act too eager, but it was useless. You’d been to his house before, but never alone with him. Not that you thought anything would happen, of course. He was just being kind to you, like he always has been. 

He just wanted to make you feel safe. 

It only takes you a few days to adjust. He leaves early in the morning and comes home late covered in sweat and dirt and sawdust. He meant what he’d said; you really do have all the privacy you need. You wish he’d give you less. Some nights, he sits with you in the living room and scarfs down whatever little meal you’ve made for him. Never anything fancy, just canned ravioli or a frozen pizza, but he looks so grateful every time you wonder how long it’s been since anyone did anything for him.

You might do just about anything for him.

A week into your stay, the heat is relentless—eighty nine degrees at nine o’clock, and even with the air running you can’t stand more than a tank top and a pair of flimsy shorts. You don’t think too much about your attire—it’s July in Texas, after all.

You’re in the living room watching American Idol when Joel gets home. He grimaces at the TV on the way to the kitchen.

“You like that show?” He asks a moment later, leaning against the doorframe with a beer in his hand. His dark hair is curled with sweat, and his jeans are even tighter than usual. How does he get any work done in those things?

“Just the auditions,” you say, shrugging. “Those have to be staged, right?”

He gives a noncommittal nod, coming to a halt in front of the couch. His eyes drag over your bare legs and up to your low cut top. “You warm, sweetheart?” He asks. 

“A little,” you admit, suddenly very conscious of the way he’s looking at you. “It’s no big deal.”

He sits next to you, spreading his legs in that domineering way men do so that his jean-clad thigh presses against your leg. “Bet you’d do good on this,” he says, nodding toward the TV. “Pretty girl like you.”

“I can’t even sing,” you point out. 

“Don’t matter,” he laughs. “With that face? That body? Shit.”

You bite your lip and let out a nervous giggle, too flustered at the idea of him looking at your body at all to answer. You like it, though—it sends a rush of arousal through you, and you cross your legs, hoping it disguises the way you squeeze your thighs together.

“Ah, shit,” he says softly. “I’m sorry, honey. That make you uncomfortable? I’m not tryin’ to be disrespectful.”

“No!” You quickly dismiss his worries. The last thing you need is him thinking you’re some little girl who can’t take a compliment. “Thank you, Joel. You’re very sweet.”

He brushes his knuckle over your bare shoulder and smiles. “You, too, sweetheart.”

Goosebumps flare over the skin he touches, but he doesn’t remark on it. Twenty minutes later, he’s somehow even closer to you, pressed right up against your side. He smells like outside, like he needs a long shower, but all that does is make you want him even more.

He gets up eventually, knees popping with a soft groan, and stretches. “All right, sweetheart, I’m gonna head on to bed. Can barely keep my eyes open.”

You stand, too, not ready to part with him just yet, but lacking any reason to keep him around. Instead, you reach past him for the remote and turn the TV off, pretending like you’re tired, too. You couldn’t be more awake. 

Before you can even try to make yourself leave, Joel slides his fingers underneath the thin strap of your tank top. “This is a pretty thing,” he says. “You usually wear this around the house?”

You swallow. “Am I not supposed to?”

“‘Course you can,” he says, smiling at you and pulling his hand back. “Just can’t imagine your dad letting you walk around in something like this.”

“Well, I’m not a kid,” you say, slightly indignant. “It’s hot, so I’m wearing it. And I wear it at home, too.”

You’re lying.

“Attagirl. Just want you to be comfortable here, sweetheart.” Joel grins and squeezes your arm. You want him to squeeze everything on you like that. 

That night you toss and turn, trying to stop the burning need in your belly. You cup your mound, too scared to try to give yourself any real relief, but you need something. Eventually, you fall into a restless, fitful sleep, haunted by vivid and dirty dreams starring Joel Miller.

The next morning you wake with an angry, insistent throb between your legs. The house is quiet—Joel must have left for the day already—and you know, without a doubt, you need to do something about the wet, sticky arousal between your legs. 

It hits you that you finally can do something about it without fear of someone barging in, too. Your hand trails down your stomach, reaching into your panties, and you let out a long sigh of relief as you reach your hard, swollen clit. 

It’s not so easy, though. 

You rarely get a chance to do this, and you can count the number of successful orgasms you’ve had on one hand. It’s always so much work, and today is no exception, no matter how riled up you are.

You try every way you can think of—on your back, on your tummy, standing, sitting, laying down, fingers in, fingers out. Nothing works. You need something more. 

And then, of course, there is the all-consuming guilt that eats at you, always. Even though you’re alone, even if he’s at work, you’ve been defiling yourself in the house he’s so graciously offered to you, and you can’t stop from thinking of him, touching yourself for hours until your fingers cramp and shoulders ache and you still can’t get there. Tears gather in the corner of your eyes. 

You need this so much. 

It’s been months now, maybe over a year since you’d come. Consciously, anyway. Sometimes you wake up after a particularly erotic dream soaked and twitching and furious. It’s not fair. Why not when you’re awake, too?

But you know that answer deep down. It’d been beaten into your head for years and years: no sex until marriage and no violating your body. It’s disgusting, only dirty girls do that, and you’re not a dirty girl. You were a good girl. You went to church, you did your chores, you babysat your neighbors’ kids for free, you did volunteer work. 

You were a good girl. 

Dirty girls have sex; they let men touch them in ways only husbands should. Dirty girls drink and smoke and won’t make it into heaven. 

You’d been determined to make it into heaven, once. Now, you don’t care so much about some heavenly kingdom. You’re more interested in getting off. 

You sigh and peel your sweaty body off your sheets. Maybe a shower will take your mind off all of this. A shower and a book in the living room, somewhere public enough to keep your hands off of your pussy.

The couch is overstuffed and suede, comfortable and squishy enough to take a nap on without waking up with a crick in your neck. You lay down and pull a book from your bag, intending on finishing all the assigned reading for your Women’s Fiction class before the semester begins. 

Most of the books you’ve read for school, even the novels and short stories have been dry, dense classics—the perfect distraction. It might even put you to sleep. 

After a while, though, you think you might be in trouble. 

A description of a man’s hands has your whole body trembling. Joel has nice hands—large and veiny with a rough palm and calloused fingertips from years of working with wood and nails and power tools you couldn’t name, but that was fine. Maybe he’d show you one day. 

Closing your eyes, you lay the book on your chest and breathe, trying to regain some control. You’ve lost every bit of control you’d deluded yourself into believing you’d had as Joel’s hands invade your consciousness.

He could teach you a lot with those hands, you think. You bet he knows a lot about pleasing women. Maybe he could even teach you how to please yourself. 

You imagine him directing you in that firm voice, praising you for listening so well. Telling you how proud he is of you. That you’ve done such a good job, you’re such a good, sweet girl.

You hike up the little sundress you’d put on after your shower, trailing your fingers up and down your torso and focusing on how soft your skin is. They hit the book spine and a thought crosses your desperate, needy mind. 

Maybe you need something firm. 

Maybe your fingers are too soft, your touch too light, your pillows too squishy. 

Jesus Christ, you’re possessed, contemplating nestling a book between your legs. You open one eye, peeking around for something to distract you from this, anything at all, but there’s nothing. It’s just you and your dirty mind.

You need to get out of the house. 

But as you stand, holding the couch arm for balance, something clicks. Cushioned but firm. Not too wide, not too tall. Your pulse quickens, eyes darting around the room as if expecting someone to pop out, but it’s just you, and this might be exactly what you need.

Despite your solitude, you tiptoe up to your room to grab a used towel from the laundry basket, not wanting to get any of yourself on Joel’s nice, clean couch. You still have a few more hours till he’s home. 

God, you really hope it doesn’t take that long. 

You spread the towel over the arm and hastily remove your panties, so eager the left leg hole is looped around your ankle that dangles off the edge. There’s really no graceful way to do this, and you try not to think about how ridiculous you might look as you press your swollen pussy into the arm. 

It’s…good. 

Shit, it’s perfect; just enough pressure to make your legs tremble. You rock back and forth, feeling yourself getting wetter and wetter, slick pouring out of you as you try new angles and rhythms.  

How had you never tried this before? You let out a soft moan, far too shy to be any louder than that, but it echoes through the room and the sound of your own pleasure spurs you on. 

At first you don’t think of anything other than this feeling, that you want to feel like this always, like it’s some drug you’ve just discovered. But then you see brown eyes and dark hair with threads of gray, that divot in his lower lip as you imagine him taking what he wants, looming over you as he tells you, “Ain’t free to stay here, darlin’.” What else could you do but enjoy it? He’s too big and strong.

Your hips move faster, clit pressing into the surface below you, calves aching with effort. You can see him underneath you now, holding your thighs as you ride him. It always looks like so much work on the videos you’ve seen, but maybe if it feels anything like this it’d be worth it. You’re getting close to something now, arousal sticking to the insides of your thighs as you bite your lips to keep from crying out. You’re almost there, that coil in your belly tightening and tightening, oh, God—

Sunshine pours through the front door and your eyes fly open, suddenly face to face with Joel.

With Joel. 

No, no, no.

You freeze and he stops short, eyebrows shooting into his hairline as he takes in the scene in front of him. There’s no way to make this look like anything other than what it is, especially not with your panties dangling pathetically around your ankle. 

Common sense and burning shame tell you to cover yourself, run away, grab your bags and leave and hope he never ever ever looks at you ever again. 

Fear, though, does something else entirely. Fear makes your body freeze, makes your eyes well up with horrified tears, waiting for some awful reprimand as you sputter out some pathetic excuse. 

Dirty, bad, disgusting girl. 

“I-I-“

The words stick in the back of your throat—there’s nothing that will make this situation any better. He’ll know you’re dirty, he’ll kick you out, he’ll tell your parents what an awful, disgusting—

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle, hoping it means something. 

But he just shuts the door and kneels in front of you, cupping your burning face with his big hands. “Oh, no, no, nothin’ to be sorry about, baby girl. I shoulda told you I was comin’ home. You’re not in trouble, sweetheart, I’m not mad.”

You can hardly make sense of him as he gazes at you with those doleful brown eyes; all you know is that the panic has started to recede, replaced by a desperate, aching need. 

“You’re not mad?” You ask, hot tears spilling over. 

“Of course not,” he says, leaning in to press his forehead against yours and swiping his thumbs across your cheeks. “It’s only natural, baby. Feels good, huh?”

It fucking does, especially with this new feeling in your tummy and the smell of him invading your senses, woodchips and grass and some fading cologne. 

“Mmhmm,” you sigh, not daring to move. “I just—I never—I’m never really alone for long enough to make myself—“

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You can keep goin’ if you want, I don’t mind. Told you I wanted you to be comfortable here. With me.” 

You start to rock your hips slowly, keening as he pulls your dress up and wraps his hands around your hips.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs. “I know that feels so good. You been needin’ this?” 

“Yeah,” you gasp; you can barely get words out. “Needed—for a while.”

“That’s it, c’mon, it’s natural, baby. It’s so, so good for you.”

You whimper at his words, still too shy to make much noise, but it’s like he can read your mind. “You make all the fuckin’ noise you want, baby girl. It’ll make it better,” he promises. 

“Joel,” you breathe, unthinking, focusing on what you think might be your first orgasm in ages. “Joel—“

“Let it happen, sweetheart. Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Look so pretty, baby girl, look so sexy. Good girl—“

That coil snaps, molten liquid gushing from you. You can hear noises coming from your mouth, but you can barely feel yourself making them. All the focus is on your wet, throbbing cunt.

Joel wraps his big arms around your shivering body when you come back down, kissing your forehead as he lays you on the couch. Your eyes feel heavy, body aching in a pleasant way. 

“That feel better?” He asks softly, kneeling over you with one thigh between your legs. He could take what he wants now, you think idly. You’re all spread out and boneless, and if he pressed himself into you you’d have no defenses. 

And you really, really want him to take it. 

“Mm,” is all you can say with a dreamy smile on your face. 

He reaches down between your legs and spreads your lips with two fingers. No one else has ever touched you there, and it makes you clench around nothing. 

You’ve never had sex, but you understand you want him inside of you.

“Goddamn,” he says. “She’s a pretty little thing.”

Heat blossoms across your cheeks.

Joel watches your face as his middle finger slides down to your entrance, rubbing little circles around it and making you squirm. “Yeah?” He asks. “You want me to play with you more?” You swear something cracks in your neck at your vigorous nod and he grins. “You ain’t ever had anyone do this to you before, have you?”

“No,” you sigh, feeling your voice come back. You clear your throat. “I…you know how my parents are.”

He nods, frowning, and you fear the mention of them might have ruined the mood. But he’d asked, and you want him to know. To your relief, he doesn’t dwell on it. 

“Are you sure, honey?” He asks.

“Do you…do you not want to?” You ask carefully, wondering if he’s trying to back out, if he’s trying to say he doesn’t want this responsibility. 

“No, baby, I do. I really, really do,” he groans, still toying with your pussy. “Just want you to be sure. If it’s too fast—”

“I want it,” you say. Something desperate’s clawing at you, and you might explode if he doesn’t take it right now. 

“Not doin’ this on the couch,” he says. “Gonna do this right.”

You almost tell him you don’t mind where he does it, just as long as he does it now, but he’s pulling you off the couch and leading you upstairs before you can say anything. 

His room has been off limits until now—not as a rule, per se, but as a boundary you’d set. You suspect he wouldn’t have minded if he caught you in here poking around. 

Joel pulls your dress over your head and unhooks your bra, humming as your breasts bounce out of their confinement. He admires your naked body, and you try not to tremble too much in front of him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Fine,” you murmur. “Just…nervous. Some of the girls I know said it hurts.”

“Not if I do it right,” he says. “Might be a little pinch, but shouldn’t be a big deal. If it is, you tell me, okay, baby girl?”

He’s so sweet it makes you ache. 

He pulls your nipple into his mouth and you arch into him, surprised and pleased at the new sensation. 

Joel chuckles and presses a chaste kiss to your nose. “Here’s what I’m gonna do,” he says. “I’m gonna eat your pussy for a while, see if we can get you more relaxed, and then I’m gonna stretch you out on my fingers. And then I’m gonna fuck you. Gonna try to make your pretty little pussy come all over my cock, all right? That sound good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I—Can you kiss me?” 

He smiles and noses your cheek, slotting his lips with yours. He slides his tongue across the seam of your lips, and you let him, following his lead as he licks into your mouth. 

A new, shuddering wave of arousal makes you wetter and wetter, and Joel presses his fingers against your clit and rubs. And oh, fuck, it feels so much better than when you do it, his firm strokes sending shockwaves through your body. He pulls his fingers away and sucks on them, and you whine at the loss of attention. 

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “Gonna take my time with you, remember? Wanted this for a long time, baby girl.”

“Really?” You ask. 

“You think I hang around for your old man’s pleasant company?”

You giggle. 

“Might not be able to let you go after this,” he says, kissing down your neck. “Might not want to.” He exhales a shaky breath. “Fuck, baby, can’t believe you’re lettin’ me do this.”

“Can I see you?” You ask, and he nods, shucking off his shirt and unbuckling his belt as quick as he can. You’ve never seen a naked man in real life, and he might have just ruined you for anyone else. 

You don’t know where to look, eyes trailing from his broad shoulders to his firm biceps, down to his soft belly and narrow hips. Nestled in the middle under a thatch of dark curls is his hard, leaking cock, red and throbbing under your gaze. Your mouth waters, wondering what it tastes like, what it feels like in the palm of your hand. 

You’ve read a million books with a million descriptions of thick, pulsing members, seen pictures in magazines and once, when you were feeling particularly brave, on the internet, but nothing prepared you for how much you’d crave it the moment it’s in front of you. 

Maybe it’s not all of them—maybe it’s just his. 

“Can I touch it?” You ask.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Yeah, yeah baby girl, you can touch it.”

It’s heavy, warm and smooth in your hand as you stroke him timidly. He moans softly, flashing an encouraging smile. “Can I taste it?” You ask, thumbing his leaking slit.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, nodding. You lick up the back of it before engulfing the head in your mouth, sucking softly and moaning at the salty taste of his precome. 

“All right, sweetheart,” he chuckles, pulling you off. “This is about you, and you’re gonna make me come if you keep on with that.”

You want to make him come, though. 

But you do as you're told, only pouting a little. He pulls your legs apart, throwing your legs over his shoulders to get as close to you as he can. He inhales and shudders, and you hope that’s a good thing. 

“Fuck me,” he says. “Smell so good. Just needs some attention, hm? Look at her, she’s drippin', poor thing.” He seems to be talking directly to your pussy now, and it makes you a little lightheaded with desire. “Think she needs my tongue. Think she needs to come again, get her all ready for my cock.”

He licks you from entrance to clit, groaning the moment he gets his tongue on you. His noises rumble through you, and he presses his finger gently inside of you. 

This is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s all slick and wet, the flat of his tongue pushing against your swollen clit as his finger massages you open. He brushes something inside, something you’ve never felt yourself, and you cry out his name. 

“There she is,” he murmurs. Your vision blurs, squeezing the sides of his head with your thighs. He keeps going, unrelenting, replacing his finger with his tongue as you buck against his face. “That’s right, baby, take it, take what you need.”

You can barely hear him, too lost in the sound of blood rushing in your ears as you snap again, gushing and gushing around his tongue. He works you through it, whispering praise as you tremble underneath him. It feels so good, it all feels so good—how had it taken so long to make it work?

Joel crawls up your body until he’s caging you with his arms, kissing you with all your slick on his lips. “Good girl,” he says. “Took what you needed, came so hard for me.”

You can barely speak, but you do have one request.

“Fuck me,” you beg, because you’ll die if he doesn’t. You need him, no matter much it might pinch or sting in the beginning, you need to be full of him. “Please, Joel, I’ve needed you for so long. I need you, I need you—”

He kisses your face, wiping away overwhelmed tears. “Okay, baby, shh. You’re okay, I got you, gonna make you feel good. You need me?” He asks. There is something soft and vulnerable in the question. You wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Need you, Joel, always wanted it to be you,” you sigh against his lips. He cradles you close, holding you like you’re made of glass. 

“You want me to get a condom?” He asks. 

You shake your head urgently. “I’m on the pill.” 

He only hesitates for a second before he coaxes your legs open and lifts your hips, shoving a pillow underneath until you’re exposed and spread out for him. You feel him notch the fat head of his cock against you and you snake your hand down to feel it, opening yourself even further for him. 

It’s a stretch to be sure, but you’re so wet and relaxed he slides in with minimal resistance. Nothing burns, nothing stings, nothing even pinches—it just feels incredible. The noise he lets out is obscene, long and growling, with his eyes trained on where your bodies join. “Wish you could—fuckin—see this—” He says, shallow thrusts punctuating each word. “Your pussy’s so—fuckin’-perfect, baby girl.”

He’s rubbing against that spot again, the one that had you keening earlier, but you find the area to be even bigger with his thick cock brushing it back and forth. 

Is this really the feeling you’d been shamed for your whole life? This euphoria, this overwhelming connection to someone you’ve cared about for so long? This was the bad, horrible sin that would damn you for eternity?

It doesn’t make any sense. 

It feels so good tears you start crying again, overwhelmed with every tremor and tingle and shock of arousal. This can’t be wrong—it can’t be—and there’s so much freedom in this knowledge. 

Above you, Joel’s eyes are closed in what you think is concentration, and you bring your hand to his jaw to stroke his beautiful face. He can’t know what he’s done for you, what he’s still doing for you, but you can at least make him try to understand. His eyes fly open at your touch, brows knitting in concern at your tears. 

“Baby, do I need to stop? Does it hurt?” He asks, slowing his pace. 

“No,” you gasp. “Keep going. I just—it feels so good, Joel. You’re making me feel so good, didn’t know it would feel so good.”

He readjusts your hips and hits you at a new angle. “My good, beautiful girl,” he moans. “Think you can come again, pretty girl? What do you need from me?”

“Faster,” you beg. You bring your fingers to your clit, still sensitive from earlier, and circle gently at first. And then it builds and builds, and he hits you deeper and deeper, until you feel it happening again. It’s smaller, weaker than the others, but that’s okay, too.

“That’s it,” he moans. “Attagirl, gettin’ so tight, you gonna come for me? Come on, baby, know you got one more—oh, fuck—”

He stops as you clench around him, crying his name again and pulling his lips to yours. Joel swallows all your cries, whispering soft praise as you clench and spasm around him. “Sweet little pussy just needed someone to treat her right, huh? Oh, you needed that so bad. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, baby girl, gushin’ all over my cock.”

He starts to move again, chasing his own high and massaging your tits as he does. “Love these,” he murmurs. “Gonna come all over these one day.”

One day. 

“Joel,” you whisper, looking into his eyes. “Please.”

He groans loudly and you feel him come with his face buried in your neck. “Fuck, baby girl,” he pants, collapsing on top of you as he finishes.

He pulls out of you, and there’s a soft ache in your chest at the disconnect. Will your heart always feel like a bruised peach afterward, or is it just because it’s your first time? Is it just because it’s him? 

And there’s that whole thing—the fact that it’s him at all. 

Your heart thuds dully against your ribs, all the dopamine and euphoria crashing into harsh reality. It’s not like anything can really happen between the two of you. 

“What is it?” He asks, pulling you into his bare chest. “Why’re you thinkin’ so loud?”

He’s looking at you with soft eyes, tracing his finger down your nose and cupping your jaw. “Y’okay?”

Joel’s not usually so forward. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s not usually so forward with you. 

He’s not the type to chase college tail, or be inappropriate with someone young enough to be his daughter. He’s not that guy, despite Tommy’s constant ribbing over Joel’s interest in you. 

He doesn’t know when you went from girl to woman or when he finally noticed it. He just looked up one day and you were incredible enough to make him stick around despite his increasing impatience with your father. 

He almost feels guilty when he invites you to stay. It’s not that he has any nefarious intentions—not really. Whatever happens, happens. He really does just want you to feel safe. 

But then you make him little meals and walk around in your little shorts and it makes him insane, it makes him do things he shouldn’t even think about. It makes him touch you, tease you, flirt with you in ways he knows you don’t really understand. 

And then he catches you. 

He catches you in the middle of the day, desperate enough to grind your hot little pussy against the arm of his couch, and what else can he do when you look so pretty and small and scared but encourage you? 

He wants you to feel all the pleasure you can, even if it means guiding you there himself. He can’t imagine being twenty one and all pent up, no outlet of relief for that little swollen cunt. How awful it must feel to walk around dripping wet and needy; he doesn’t want that for you. He wants you to feel safe and pleased and satiated, and if he’s the one to do it, then so goddamn be it. If it makes you happy, he doesn’t much care what people think. 

Right now, though, you don’t look happy. Your brows are pinched in thought, head cocked in his direction but not quite meeting his eyes. He curls his index finger under your chin, pulling you gently to look straight at him. “What’s wrong, baby girl?” 

You smile at the name and it warms him. “Just…nothing, really. Just don’t know what happens now. Like, with us. Or if this is it, or—”

“This ain’t it,” he says, more insistent than he intends. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t mean to stick around.”

Your whole body melts, like he’s just taken a solid ton off your shoulders, and you lean into him. “Really?” You ask. “I understand if it’s too much or too weird, you know. I know guys don’t like it when girls get clingy, so I promise I won’t.”

His heart aches at how earnest you are. 

“Don’t you worry a thing about that, sweetheart. I don’t scare so easy,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss and nosing your cheek. 

“And you don’t think I did anything wrong?” You ask. 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You don’t think I’m dirty now?” 

Joel can tell he needs to phrase his next sentence very, very carefully. “No, darlin’. You enjoyed yourself and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. No matter what you’ve been told, all right?”

You nod, not fully convinced, he thinks, but convinced enough. He pulls you in for another kiss—he could distract you from those thoughts, at least. You sigh against his lips, yielding easily to his tongue, and for a while he just kisses you. 

He should’ve done this first; should’ve taken it slow and gotten you used to everything over a period of time, but he’s never claimed to be a selfless man. He lets you explore his mouth and massage his tongue with your own, patient and more than willing to help you figure out what feels good to you. He could do this all day, all week, all month—hell, if he knew Tommy wouldn’t come looking for him he’d just take the next week off and teach you everything you’d ever need to know. 

You moan into his mouth and his cock twitches with interest, apparently recovered from earlier exertions. He grabs your thigh and pulls, urging you into his lap and smiling against your lips at the gasp you let out when you feel his cock nudging at you. 

“Joel,” you murmur. “Joel, can we do it again?”

He cups the back of your neck and squeezes softly. “Of course, sweetheart. Need more already?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is, darlin’. How ‘bout we try somethin’ different this time?”

You nod vigorously as his hands slide down your body and squeeze your hips. “Yes, please. Please, Joel, teach me everything, I wanna know everything.”

Joel shudders underneath you. 

“Say it again,” he growls, lining his cock up with your messy pussy and bottoming out.

“Teach me,” you gasp. “Please.”

a/n #2: if i had a nickel for every fic that had someone getting caught fucking a couch i'd only have two nickels but it's weird that it happened twice, right?

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Please 👉👈 May I have more? 🫠

Because I'm genuinely excited for FAT subby, needy, loquacious EZRA, here's a piping hot snippet for the untitled [more than like not a drabble but a full blown one shot] Ezra fic.

Yours in sin,

Beefro👌🥩💜

@morallyinept @xdaddysprincessxx @noxturnalpascal

You’d cared for him when his appendage was newly parted from his person, after a young woman dumped him off at your meager midwife’s centre. You hadn’t delivered a baby in at east eight cycles, but you were busy tending to broken bones and crushed limbs from the mine near by, so the idea of caring for a wound caused by a missing arm wasn’t far from your everyday. What was far from the standard men in your care was that this one wouldn’t shut up. Truly. You’d never encountered someone so close to death spew such a narrative. You almost wished to have him out of his misery just to stop his linguistic vomit. Thank god for sedatives. You didn’t even want to know his name, worried that if you had his, he’d need yours and there was no way someone this sick and wounded that was capable of carrying on like he’s memorized a thesaurus wasn’t capable of performing a hex or a curse on you.

This most certainly helps! Makes me feel like I’m on the right track as well ❤️ Thank you so much for always trying to help me and others!!!! You’re the best 🤩

Congrats on 500! 🥳🎉 I’m not surprised at all that you have that many followers cause you are a badass and have amazing work 😘

💌-What is your process for writing? Do you do outlines? Do you have certain things you do to prepare yourself to write?

Thank you so much DD!!!

It's been so fun getting to know you and I'm so glad to be able to share this wonderful fandom with you.

Thank you for asking about my writing process! I hope my answer is a little helpful for you (if not a little bit long-winded).

I actually always start my fics by making a moodboard. While I'm making it, I'm thinking about details I want to include (besides the main ideas) and that helps my moodboard take shape and gets me in the right frame of mind. The moodboard can always be edited down the road if details end up getting changed, but that's how I start.

Then I start taking notes. I did an outline once but I prefer to go less formal now because I add details and the outline format was not conducive to that. I write major notes down as I've thought of them and then as I go through it a second and third time, I add in details.

I often think about certain parts of the story like scenes from a movie, and I like to think about them in detail, with specific dialogue. So I will write those things out too (roughly) and then I can go back later to fine-tune that whole scene. I will build my story around these scenes - them being the major plot points - and the rest gets filled in as I go along. I also get to know my characters more as I go along.

As an example - This scene (from chapter 6 of Devotion) - the highlighted dialogue was on my mind from the VERY beginning of this series conception back in December. I wrote it one of the very first days I was making notes on this story. The first picture (in green) is the raw stuff I put into my notes and below it (highlighted with yellow) is the final posted scene.

So yeah... I just take notes and add in details each time I go through, focus on main plot points (or scenes), and then write around them. I hope that helps!

Well I’ll be damned. Never thought of that combo before… 👀😍🫠

Fic: Send Out the Morning Birds - Javi G x reader x Joel M

It's the lord's day, have some threesome smut-alluding goodness.

Title: Send Out the Morning Birds

Author: @ghotifishreads

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x reader x Joel Miller

Word Count: 700

Summary: The languid morning after the night before

Warnings: groping, beautiful men with lethal morning voices, hints of threesome shenanigans

A/N: @ozarkthedog and I were talking about Pedro’s voice and I said, something like “His morning sleepy voice must be something else," and then talked about how different Joel and Javi G would sound in the morning and I said “Why not both?” and Ozzie said, “I hate you now you have to write it (affectionate).” So then this happened?

Unbeta’d. Title from the song Hurricane by The Hush Sound

🔞Over 18s only, minors dni! 🔞 I do not give permission for my work to be republished, reposted, or translated.

++++++

It had started off simply enough. Javi wanted renovations. 

“The contractor is very handsome,” Javi says contemplatively, as if Joel Miller is a problem to be solved. 

“Taciturn but absolutely handsome,” you agree.

“Though I do not think he was appreciating my talking his ear off about Paddington 2,” Javi worriedly states, lips in a firm line and brow coiled. But what Javi missed was that you’d seen the contractor stop his work on fitting the cabinet to watch Javi’s passionate ramble, and that you’d seen the fondness in Joel’s eyes and the small smile before he grunted an agreement of sorts before turning back to his work.

“I don’t think he minded, Javi.” 

—

Now?

Sunlight pierces the veil of your slumber. Javi had clearly forgotten to draw the blackout curtains after last night’s activities.

You were also so warm. This wasn’t the sun, but the work of the two lumbering bodies bookending you in Javi’s California king bed.

From your left you feel a tentative, tingling touch along your collarbone.

“Mmm, buenos días,” Javi intones sweetly as his fingertips trail teasingly in longer and longer sweeps from your sternum, over the curve of your breast, and down to your waist, then back up all over again.

True to his sunshine demeanor, Javi’s woken up with the daylight, and greets you with a careful kiss that’s as eager and bright as the sun itself.  

You yawn, arching your back and curling your feet against the luxe Egyptian cotton sheets as your lover drags his teasing touch along you. 

“Good morning,” you whisper in greeting Javi, licking your lips as the ministrations of his fingers keep you arching into his touch, humming softly. You card your fingers through his chocolate waves hinted with gold.

You move slowly and languidly. For the mood and pace of the moment it feels right for the morning. But you’re also keenly aware of the other party in the bed, who may not be awake and who doesn’t strike you as a morning person.

To your right, a deep grumbling groan emits up from the mountain of man beside you. The sound runs so deep and bassy you feel it vibrating the sheets as much as you hear it. After last night, you know in the deepest hotspot of your pleasure precisely how that rumble feels against your skin, your cunt. 

You and Javi turn your attention to the broad expanse of Joel’s heaving shoulders and untidy silver-threaded dark locks in disarray from last night’s play as he stirs and rolls to face the pair of you. 

“Mornin’” he grits out, mashing the left side of his face into the pillow, while one beady eye stays on your face before his gaze alights on Javi’s occupied, softly stroking fingers. 

“Good morning, Joel,” you trill softly and sweetly, at the same time Javi says, “Buenos.”

His voice is deep but more delicate than Joel’s gritty greeting. 

“How do you feel?” you ask, cheating your body open towards the contractor to rake your fingers through hair, and so he can fully take in the view of Javi’s hands raising goosebumps on your flesh and wetness in your core. 

Now, under the watchful eye of Joel, the olive grove magnate’s fingers begin circling the protruding bud of your nipple.

You sigh heavily.

“Hmmm,” Joel hums. “Bit sore. But fucking good. Especially wakin’ up to this.”

His heavy hand snags your opposite hip and pulls you on top of him, “Sorry, Javi. Gonna just borrow our girl for a minute,” and finishes by palming the back of your head to guide your lips to his for a languorous kiss. Dragging himself out of slumberland as he drugs you with kisses.

Javi doesn’t miss a beat,and follows you across the bed. He props his head on his hand, wavy unruly hair falling across his forehead. His other hand busies itself cupping your ass now, guiding your hips to rut against Joel’s. 

The Spaniard lets out his own languid sigh at the sight of Joel’s tongue pressing past the seam of your lips. “I think it would be more than a minute, my good man. I do not blame you.”

++end++

Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed what you read, please do reblog or leave a comment, I’d be most grateful! Want to read more of my work? Take a peek at my masterlist here.

Ohhh!!! How did you know I’d wanna see something from Frankie and Mouse?! 😍🫠😍🫠

Beeeeef!!!!! I’m so proud of you for reaching 900 followers! You deserve it so much ❤️ You are so talented with the way you can word things, write the best chubby!Pboy, and I’m so glad that I’m getting know you better! 😍

Now! Show me something you’re working on!!! 🍳

I love how you meet my feral-ness and push for more. So glad we met, Deedle!

You wanna WIP? Lemme see what I have in in the ol' Test Kitchen... Ah yes! From deep in the cellar, we have a sample from something called: FM - WIP #15 - Vacay - CF&M... [i know.. i need to work on the title... but that's future kiki's problem]

Yours in sin,

Beefro👌🥩💜

When you and Frankie had agreed to completely letting him go wild on your all-inclusive two-week cruise, you couldn’t have imagined this. Not in your wildest dreams. It was the end of day two and Frankie was currently sitting back, leaning against the headboard of your king-sized bed, belly completely distended. For two days straight, he’d done nothing but eat at the buffet and bask in the sun, and it showed. His skin was a beautiful bronze, and his stomach was round and taut. “Mouse, baby… can you grab me a beer? I’m thirsty…”, he asked with a sheepish smile. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms in mock-irritation. “Oh? Can’t get it yourself?” He chuckled, his tummy bouncing a bit as he did, then he winced and rubbed his hands tenderly along his sides. “Baby… please…”, he whined. You smiled and grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge, walked over to the bed, and crawled onto what was available of his lap. You popped the lid off the beer and handed it to him, your hands then gently rubbing his very full tummy. “Feeling pretty full…”, you cooed as you applied gentle pressure to his tummy, under his belly button, and gave it a bit of a bounce. It didn’t move all that much.  “You sure you got room for a beer, Frankie? Belly’s feeling tight…” He took a drink and nodded with a grin. “Yeah… I got room. Didn’t eat that much.”

Oh I’m rooting for this couple so much!!! 😍😭 The ending made me so giddy

4. lovesick

Let's Get Lost Chapter 4 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Summary: You and Frankie aren’t together anymore but you’re in a good place. However, spending a week together for your mutual friends’ wedding on a luxury resort might challenge that slightly and realising you’re still in love with your ex is a sure-fire recipe for disaster … Tropes: it was always you, getting back with the ex, beach!Frankie (you know *that* photoshoot) miscommunication, only one bed, good parent Frankie Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, references to past drug addiction, references to alcohol, historic argument referenced, one passing reference to body insecurity, reader is unnamed with no physical desctipton but wears a necklace, Frankie and reader are parents, yearning? Word Count: 3350 Notes: Thank you for the lovely feedback so far - it's meant so much to me and I hope you enjoy this update. I am so excited to share this chapter with you! The chapter title is from Laurel's song lovesick.

Previous | Series | Next

The nearby town is awake and full of life this morning. Dappled light warms your skin as you walk through the main street with the rest of your group. You can smell the salt air of the sea in the distance, interspersed with enticing smells of food as you walk past a bustling restaurant.

You could stay here forever.

Clara’s ahead of you, glued to Santiago and giggling happily as she animatedly tells him about everything she wants to do today. It sounds hectic, involving the beach, the summer club, and a truly incredible amount of ice-cream.

Next to you, Frankie has a soft smile on his face as you catch him looking at your daughter. He seems more relaxed at last. There’s a lightness to him again, his smile reaches his eyes and there’s warmth in his face again. You missed that.

You missed him. You miss him.

Living a life agonising over what could have been is wrong. You made the right decision to leave Frankie at the time. You know that.

You and Clara deserved better than the life that he was promising you both at that moment. Clara was, she is, the priority and quite simply, you didn’t want your child to grow up around active addiction. That’s not a bad thing. Frankie feels the same, he’s told you.

Frankie’s changed now though. Your Frankie’s back and that’s a complication you didn’t expect.

You’re happy for him. He’s lost that haunted look in his eyes; the shadows are lighter on his face. It’s even good to see him in those ridiculous patterned holiday shirts, to notice his hair is just a little longer and the curls are peeking through again and look clean and healthy. He’s not been wearing his hat on holiday and there’s something about seeing his hair like this that makes you want to run your hands through it.

You cannot ruin Benny and Lia’s wedding though. You can suppress this.

You have to.

You’re so close to Frankie right now though.

It happens without thought. You’re not sure who initiates it , whether it’s you or Frankie, but somehow as your arms unconsciously move with the stride you take, your fingers have brushed his. Then they’re entwined. Gently, barely touching really, but linked all the same.

It feels electric.

It feels dangerous.

What are you playing at? Is this wrong? Is it cruel to Frankie? Or you? And what about your daughter? She needs consistency, she needs structure. Not the messed up will they, won’t they? you and her Frankie could develop into.

This feels natural though. It reminds of you of how things used to be. Hand in hand walking down the city streets after dinner, so incontrovertibly in love with him. Lia used to joke you were couple goals, until you weren’t.

The memories you’ve tried to avoid since your breakup, to suppress so that the heartbreak of losing him wasn’t so sharp, are flooding back. It’s too much, it’s too hard.

It’s too messy.

You need the wall back up. You need the pillow barrier to better fight these thoughts back, to fight these stupid tiny gestures.

It’s harmless though, right?

You’re holding hands, you’re hardly pressed against the wall in a sweaty mess. So it’s fine.

It’s fine.

Santi looks back and he meets your eyes. You watch him look down fleetingly and then back at you. No one else would notice it, you’re not even sure Frankie does. You do though. You see how his face changes, the disappointment, something unreadable there too. He shakes his head just slightly.

It’s enough for you to withdraw, to walk towards Clara, making a fuss of her instead.

This is meant to be a family holiday for her, it’s meant to be about Benny and Lia’s wedding.

You can’t do this.

As the steam from the shower dissipates, you notice your reflection looks just a little healthier; a little less weary. While your mind has been running away with you, you realise that the holiday itself might be helping.

You haven’t thought about checking your work emails in days, you haven’t thought about that project or any of it. You feel a little more like yourself again which probably makes sense because you’re at the halfway point now. It always feels like you just start to enjoy and relax in your breaks as the end looms closer.

You place your damp towel back on the radiator and tug at the waistband of your loose trousers one final time. You take a deep breath, applying the finishing touches to freshening up your appearance by liberally spritzing your perfume on your neck and wrists. The warmth of the cardamom scent immediately soothes you further.

You move to put your necklace back on. It’s one you wear every day, you’re not sure how it started but you feel naked without it now. You can’t seem to get the clasp on. The more you try, the more your fingers feel clunky and sweaty and panic rises in your stomach.

You need this necklace to be able to go to lunch, you irrationally tell yourself, adding more unwanted pressure, making your fingers even more slippery.

“Crap,” you exclaim as you almost drop the necklace down the sink.

“Everything okay?” You hear Frankie ask, his soft voice a balm on your panic.

“Uh, hey Frankie, can you help me for a second?”

“Sure, sure. Are you um, are you decent?”

“Yeah, yes, um …” It hadn’t occurred to you that it might have sounded like you weren’t and for a second you try and think about all the scenarios where it might have been something else.

Frankie opens the bathroom door and closes it behind him gently. “Everything okay? You look alright?”

“I can’t get my necklace and I almost dropped it down the sink and - my hands are all sweaty?”

“It’s no problem.”

You hand him the jewellery quickly and he smiles. “You wear this every day, don’t you? I think you were wearing it when we met.”

“I would have been.”

”It’s pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you turn around?”

You oblige, shifting so that Frankie can easily place the necklace around your neck.

“There,” he says after a second.

“Thanks.”

You turn around so you’re facing him. He’s already ready for your late lunch and you can see he’s caught the sun just a little this morning. The guys had been zip-lining earlier after your breakfast in the town - Benny’s idea for a more inclusive, sober, stag event. All of you had already been diving earlier in the week - you love being in the water, it had been like coming home.

Right now, it feels like that moment when you first start a dive though. That momentary pause of doubt as you rely on the oxygen tank, as you sink down deeper into the water’s secrets. It’s exhilarating and terrifying.

You feel like that here with Frankie now.

You move closer to him, taking in the woody scent of his cologne, the slight hint of coconut sunscreen on his arms. He’s here, he’s real.

You’ve missed him.

Your lips are on his without thinking. It’s a move so familiar that it’s pure instinct. You loop your arms around his neck, bringing him ever closer to you so you can feel his torso pressing against you.

He responds, hands in your hair, moving you against the wall as he kisses you deeply.

The two of you don’t need words. You never did.

His hand skims your face, moves down your neck towards your waist as he traces the contours of your body, rests his hands on the edge of your shorts, breathes heavily onto your neck before returning to your lips.

You can feel how he wants you. You can feel the anticipation building in your stomach. You need him, you realises as you trace your fingers on the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning it and feeling the heat of his skin, noticing the freckles coming out with all the sunshine here. You take in the broadness of his shoulders, the way his lips feel against yours and his hands and you need him to move away from your waistband, beyond your cotton underwear to a point of no return.

This kiss already obliterates that barrier though, right?

His hands finally start to move down -

“Mummy,” your daughter calls and you immediately pull away from Frankie.

He looks at you, breathing raggedly.

“I’ll uh - I’ll go and check on her.”

“Yeah, I just, I just need a minute,” Frankie says in a low voice, his cheeks flushed.

“Right, yes, of course.”

“Mummy? Daddy?”

“Just coming,” you say, rolling your eyes at Frankie’s smirk and the slight shake of his head there. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Not quite,” you whisper teasingly.

“Well,” Frankie says, leaning in close again.

“MUMMY!”

“Dammit, I can tell you she’s definitely spent too much with Will. Fuck me,,” Frankie mutters. You’re not sure entirely what he means by referring to Will at that moment, but you’re too busy trying to quickly regain your composure, to get to your daughter. It’s something you can store to muse on later.

Reality calls.

The sound of the whirlpool covers the dull tones of discussion from others in the spa area. You take a sip of your tea, leaning back and shutting your eyes.

“So this is nice,” Lia says, the smile evident in the tone of her voice. “I feel like I’m finally relaxing a bit.”

“Good, you should.” How are you doing with all the prep and you - you’re marrying Benny!”

“I know, it’s … I don’t even know what to say. I love him. That’s it - I love him and I want this. I am so ready for this.” Lia smiles happily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “It’s going to be great.”

“I’m so happy for you both, ‘m happy something so good came out of the last year or so.”

“Are you and Frankie - are you two okay still?” There’s caution in her voice. The anxious part of you wonders if perhaps it’s because she’s afraid you’ll ruin her wedding, cause a scene like you did at Will’s wedding. Guilt pools in your stomach because you shouldn’t make your friend feel like this.

You’re desperate to tell her.

I kissed him. It’s on the tip of your tongue, you can feel the words forming.

You want to tell her.

It was a damn good kiss after all.

Something stops you though.

“We’re good,” you say finally. “We’re friends again and we both want the best for Clara. That’s all that matters, right?”

“Yeah. I’m actually really proud of you both. This is pretty damn mature. I’m glad you’re not, I don’t know, just messing each other around. I know it was hard, I know the breakup and everything that happened - you’ve been really strong and I am proud of you.”

On any other day, her words would fill you with pride. Today though, guilt spreads through your body instead, searing heat of anxiety with it.

“So, ”

Your name is called as the massage therapist walks into the spa.

“Later,” you say to Lia apologetically before following the stranger out of the main spa, grateful for her interruption.

Massages are strange. They’re supposed to be relaxing but you find it hard to turn off your brain, the hints of anxiety about the parts of your body you’re less than comfortable with, whether or not you’re being judged and the underlying worry of what if you fall asleep? What if you snore?

This is a surprisingly relaxing experience though - your masseuse has checked her pressure, ensured you’re comfortable and you’re starting to relax a little, to lose a little of that tension you were holding. Soft piano music plays and you shut your eyes, trying to turn off your thoughts a little.

“So are you the bride? It’s a big wedding party, isn’t it?”

“No, my friend Lia is. I’m one of the bridesmaids.”

“That’s nice.”

“They met because of me though. Well, me and my ex.” You have no idea why you’re saying this but surely there’s a privacy code, right? You can’t tell Lia, or Sophia, or anyone. So why not a stranger?

“That’s nice.”

“It was … wasn’t the best scenario.”

“Oh.” The masseuse pays attention to a knot in your neck, releasing some of the waves of tension you’ve felt recently. Maybe that’s what makes you continue.

“We had an awful break up. At our friend’s wedding, who is in fact the brother of the groom. I mean awful too and public.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yep, talk about drama. And I think - no, no, I definitely did. I just kissed my ex today, like a proper in the movies, perfect cinematic kiss. That’s one thing, but I think I might still be in love with him. I’m going to ruin Lia’s wedding too, aren’t I?”

The masseuse pauses, you feel her lift her hands above your body.

“I’m going to give you a free face mask with this. I think - I think you need it.”

Eighteen Months Ago - Will’s Wedding, Florida You’ve been pretending all evening. You have become so skilled at pretending, you think you could give Meryl Streep a run for her money. It’s exhausting though. You’re exhausted. Next to you, Sophia is humming as she opens her lip gloss and tops up her makeup. She’s changed into a different dress for the evening; less dramatic and easier to dance in. She looks beautiful, there’s a warm smile on her face, her complexion is glowing and she looks serene. Part of you hates her for that. “You look great,” Sophia says as she catches you frowning at your own reflection. “I’m so glad you and Frankie are here. the way Will is with him and Santi, they’re as much his brothers as Benny. And after Tom -” “Yeah.” “It was nice that Molly came, right? I think Tom would have liked that.” “Definitely,” you say, even though from how Frankie used to talk about the divorce with Tom and Molly you are not so sure Tom is looking down grinning right now. Tom didn’t make it back though and Frankie barely did. You still don’t know much about what happened, Sophia doesn’t seem to either. The men don’t talk about it at all. You’ve lost your Frankie though. He didn’t need to die to not come back. It just means that no one knows you’re in mourning. You keep hanging on, you keep hoping. You’re sure there’s something you could do better to help get him back. “How’s Clara doing?” Sophia asks. “Great.” She hasn’t slept in weeks, maybe months. Sleep itself is a foreign concept now and no matter what you read, no matter what you try, your daughter just cannot sleep through a night. “And you and Frankie? Are you guys next - should I, uh, aim the bouquet towards you?” You laugh lightly, swallow the bitter taste in your throat and the words you can’t say. “Sure. Shall we head out?” You’re pretty sure Frankie is using again.

Now

You pull yourself out of the memories, not wanting to go any further into that night.

You remember the aftermath all too well though. The DJ was playing Murder on the Dancefloor and the irony of it still makes you almost laugh. Your relationship died on that dance floor to a fitting song.

Flashes come back to you against your will as you try and focus on the spa, on the now.

“I don’t think we can do this anymore. I love you, Frankie. God, I love you, but we can’t.” Frankie’s look of betrayal filtering through the residual high. The heaviness that here at Will’s wedding you’ve suddenly voiced the thoughts that have consumed you for weeks. Liquid courage and the image of Sophia’s face, so full of a hope you can’t imagine anymore, guided you to this moment. “Here, really? You’re just giving up on me?” “Tell me you’re sober, Frankie, swear it.” “Don’t do this here.” “We can’t do this anymore. We can’t. It’s not - I’m done, I can’t, Frankie, I can’t.” Your voice is panicked, rising. Echoed shouts, the feel of stares, so many stares. Music going quiet. Santi and Benny guiding you both away from everybody else. Tears. Yours. His. An ending. It’s over. You can’t come back from this.

You blink back tears. It was a bad break up and it would have been so much easier if you’d ever hated Frankie, if he’d ever hated you. Breaking up because you love someone but it’s not enough is a pain you hope your daughter never has to experience.

He’s different now though.

You’re different.

It would be different, wouldn’t it?

Clara’s curled up, fast asleep in her bed. Soft snores sound as you place your book on the bedside table.

“Hey,” Frankie says softly as he shuts the bathroom door carefully. “She looks exhausted.”

“It’s all that time in the playgroup and sun,” you reply affectionately.

“Do you think she’s having a good holiday?”

“Yeah, of course. I hope so.”

“Me too. It’s good to see her happy like this. I’m glad we did this. For her.”

“Same. She’s going to look adorable at their wedding, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. Can’t believe it’s only a couple of days away and then we’re -”

“I know.” In two days, Lia and Benny get married. You won’t wreck it, you won’t.

You look at the bed, the pillow barrier Frankie has automatically built. Neither of you have spoken about the kiss before lunch. When you returned from the spa and got ready for dinner, you had spoken about Clara and your books and anything but the kiss.

The pillows feel wrong though. You remember the start of the week, how it felt secure to have the pillows between, mature even. You are grown ups, friends and exes and the pillows protected that. However, the barrier is a merely a representation of the line you obliterated earlier. It can’t work anymore.

You’re not just co-parents.

You don’t know if Frankie feels the same though, if too much has happened now for the two of you to forge something new.

The pillows are a weight though. You look at Frankie and hesitantly move one of the pillows away from the barrier.

He smiles, almost imperceptibly and then he does the same from his side of the bed.

With the lights out, there are still so many words unsaid, so many conversations the two of you need to have.

You turn in the bed, feeling the warmth radiating from Frankie’s back. You hear him shift, the rush of air as he turns around and he’s facing you.

“Hi,” he whispers, reaching a hand to touch your face.

“Hi,” you reply.

Perhaps that’s the only word you need right now. The two of you are starting all over again.

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